Six Feet Under
by lilkyonkyon
Summary: Draco contemplates the meaning of the word 'family,' though he really should have gotten it out of the way before this whole mess started. Especially now that his aunt was blowing up things like it was her job. HBP end. Rated for language. Oneshot.


I couldn't help but write this when I saw the ending of the sixth HP movie. A ridiculous amount of years later... I'm posting it! Surprise!

* * *

**Six Feet Under**

The old man was dead. Really, _truly_ dead; not that dead that he had joked about so many times with his friends. This was the kind of dead that Draco's great-great-grandparents were, the kind that made people cry. Unquestionably dead. Irreversibly dead._ Dead_ dead.

Someone hissed at him to follow, tugged at his sleeve, so he did, his feet stumbling after the billowing cloaks as he fled down the stairs of the clock tower. His steps fell in time with his thoughts:

_He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead._

One, two. One, two. One step, and the next.

He pushed the rhythm to the back of his mind, and instead tried to figure out what the hell had gone _wrong_. Because something certainly had, or else he wouldn't feel like spewing his guts up on the floor and hiding in a broom closet until the Aurors arrived. Stiffly, he wiped away the cold sweat standing on his upper lip. His hand was shaking.

One, two. One, two.

With great determination, he willed his thoughts backwards, retracing his steps until he was back in the tower, watching the old man rise instead of fall, landing on his feet safe and sound, and Snape was saying the Killing Curse, but backwards . . . .

He was horrified by the mere thought, so he pushed his mind further back, to the beginning of the night. He'd been in bed — that was fine, that bit, even though he'd been nervous and couldn't really sleep — and then he'd gone and let all the Death Eaters into the school.

_Hm. Maybe that had something to do with it._

Suddenly, Draco stopped. For one, he was in the Great Hall, which only had one set of doorways to the main corridors. He would have turned to leave, but the second thing that had made him stop was too entrancing. His aunt was on a table. Draco blinked, but the image didn't change. She was walking down one of the tabletops as if it were corridor, kicking goblets as she went, and all the while cackling madly. And then she blew up the stained glass behind the Head's table.

One thought tore through his mind: What the _fuck_. The entire hall was trashed, and he stared at her again as she flitted around the centrepiece. Someone barked at them to stop fooling around. She hopped down gaily, and he followed his aunt outside, stepping in line, (one, two) when had a minor revelation.

Things hadn't started going wrong today. No, they'd been going wrong his entire bloody life, from the moment his mother had taken him into her cold hands and christened him Draco Malfoy.

Not once had he ever been taught that he was an average wizard — Malfoys and Blacks were better than average. They were, quite simply, the _best_. His lineage could be traced back further than most people could count. He was bred for the finest in life.

It had never once crossed his mind then that he didn't actually own his name. On the contrary, he had to _work_ for it. And ever since his father was out of the picture, Draco had had to uphold the honour of the Malfoys on his own. No one had told him that the weight was so heavy. He'd struggled, he'd staggered, Merlin, he'd _cried_ because of it. So, to be perfectly reasonable, he had his surname to blame for this mess. It was three walls forcing him to always walk _forward_, no matter what happened.

One, two.

The night was surprisingly cold for that time of year. The wind snarled its way through the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, snapping at his face and rousing him from his thoughts. His feet were still working somehow, keeping pace with Snape, who seemed all too eager to escape the school grounds. Closer by, his aunt was singing and giggling to herself.

Ah, he'd forgotten that he could blame another thing for his misfortune — his aunt. Draco was confident that she had recommended him for the job in the first place; she'd certainly given him the Mark. His mother had assured him that his aunt knew what she was doing, even though Narcissa had seemed more distraught at the news of his induction than he himself had. He didn't want to worry her further by pointing out that Aunt Bellatrix, while considered to be a true Black, was also the witch that laughed whenever she mentioned the name of the cousin she'd killed.

They were close to the edge of school property, where they'd be able to Apparate to safety. Who could say when the school would alert the Ministry — maybe they'd already done it, and Aurors would be chasing after them. Or maybe everyone was still asleep, carefree in their ignorance.

And then his aunt blew up the oaf's hut, starting a roaring fire with nothing but a hoot of pleasure. Fascinated, fixated, he watched it burn. She was fucking insane.

A shout came from behind the group a moment later, and Draco whirled, fear dancing across his face. But it was just Potter chasing after them, feet stumbling down the hill in a crazy staccato. He was alone.

Numb, Draco watched his aunt hurtle a spell in Potter's direction, which sent the boy toppling to the ground. He took no joy in the sight. This is what Draco's life had become — from riches to rags, from unquestioned power to highly questionable sanity. He'd failed his father, and now, not even a seer could divinize what would happen to him, to his family.

Snape ordered them to keep moving. His feet worked on their own, but he cast one last, frightened glance back at the boy lying prone on the lawn of Hogwarts.

Draco gulped and faced forward.

One, two. One, two.

He didn't know why, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this path would only lead to his grave.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it thoroughly. Please review!


End file.
